The code is written on my body. Just beneath the skin
Nothing so simple as the repeat sequences used in DNA profiling
More complex than measuring fluctuations in cosmic radiation
An intricate lattice with no beginning or ending, and no defined point of entry. Continue reading “‘Encrypted’ by Elissa Soave”
give name to nothing. there’s
no body to it. nothing to give
or to take form. Continue reading “‘The Day’ by Clark Chatlain”
She only existed under the neon
swirl of Broadway
between 42nd and 9th – Continue reading “Hot Pocket Annie Queen of Broadway by Saira Viola”
Macro created by the artist Penny Goring from a found version of The Busman’s Prayer. Continue reading “‘The Busman’s Prayer’ macro by Penny Goring”
…what say now/ as if unsaid/ said/ what then
now/ often/ strays what will/
beyondless fathomless not/ close door/ what
foreign gift silenced/ Continue reading “‘Untitled’ – a prose-poetic by Michael Mc Aloran”
Little light sing me your lullaby
that I may lose myself in you Continue reading “3 Poems by Christian Downes”
My story is not my own
it is ours, sung from the mouth
of first nations, through generations
it somehow survived. Continue reading “3 Poems by Karissa Lang”
Everyday crucify what you know
in the naked city Continue reading “2 Poems by Rus Khomutoff”
will you let yourself pray to your own body here where worship begins in the hips Continue reading “‘My Question Is This’ by Celina Dietzel”
Dear diary,
It seems silly that I am writing in my diary at this age, and yet –
Mother called earlier today. The biopsy results are in:
A malignant tumor. Breast Cancer. Continue reading “‘Living With Cancer’ – an essay in five parts by Arathi Devandran”
Submissions to Burning House press are still open – keep sending us your poems stories art non-fiction photography etc upon the wild wild wing xx https://burninghousepress.com/submissions/
After eleven years she wondered suddenly at the silence. Once there were so many words to fit into the hour before sleep and now barely a syllable was uttered. The silken pull of the eiderdown over the blanket whispered: You are lost to me, lost to me. Continue reading “2 Poems by Kathryn Hummel”
Now I am a lake,
opaque in depth and silence
the ground unreachable
toes dip in my legends
and recoil at the truth of my temperature.
In tribute to Adrian Mitchell (Based on his poem ‘Tell Me Lies About Vietnam)
As a child, I was always kept safe,
Though I thought I understood pain.
So hold my hand across the road,
Tell me lies
About Libya.
Continue reading “‘Tell Me More Lies, The List Is Growing’ by Kirstin Maguire”
all words used in this poem taken from lyrics to the album Document #8 by Pg.99
my darling mistake / must I speak of you
only / as a wound? A ghost? // a whisper,
Raggedy Ann bed sheets cover
my aching body, smother
moans of malady.
I call to you.
Rita had been a volunteer-worker at the St Teresa Hospice shop for nearly a year now. Her friend Gladys had suggested it in a sideways way, that time over a cuppa when Rita was still unsure what to do with her days. Sure, she had friends to call on, who would call on her, friends like Gladys. But it wasn’t as simple as that. It was the hours inbetween that were difficult. The days where she saw no-one. Sometimes two, maybe three days on the trot. Especially when she slipped into what she called her ‘flunks’, this long drawn-out malaise of nothingness, of not even having the energy to pick up the phone. Continue reading “’12 GREEN, 14 BLUE’ by Dean Lilleyman”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 
‘Five Aces’ – essay by Scott Thomas Outlar
If the Beast pushes you into a corner, do you come out swinging with haymakers? Or sit down cross-legged and meditate? Both could, conceivably, be actions that lead to salvation depending on what type of mood one might be in on any given day. Do you fight fire with fire? Or apply jiu–jitsu techniques in a way that wears down the aggressor striking out against you? Sometimes it is best to step out of the way and allow that which is evil to self-destruct from within. Sometimes, however, it is best to rear back and punch a bully square in the nose.
Continue reading “‘Five Aces’ – essay by Scott Thomas Outlar” →
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